On our last day of full-time apartment life, my partner Richmond and I were feeling a lot things: tinges of anxiety, pinches of fear, pulses of anticipation, waves of excitement.
The last year had been leading up to this—our big moment. We were about to move into the Sprinter van that we’d converted into a tiny home.
It was January 31, and dark rain clouds hung above the city. As we put our final boxes into storage and shut the doors, we had a moment. We paused and let out along exhale—the breath that we’d been holding in for months.
“This is our life now,” we nervously laughed. "This is our 50 square feet of living space."
We looked at each other and waited for it to sink in. Days passed as we each braced for the other to have some kind of minor freak-out. Some kind of epiphany, stress, or regret, about moving into a little wooden box together. But it’s been almost two months, and that moment still hasn’t come.